Hisses of surprise and then consternation rustled behind her.

Sister Syntara stopped abruptly, proffering the Sceptre to Emral. ‘Sheathe it, Sister. Something is happening.’

There could be no argument to that. Emral accepted the iron and blackwood rod, slipped it into its protective shell.

Droplets of freezing water now rained upon them all. Looking up, Emral saw the gleam of frost covering the rounded arch of the ceiling. Shock stole away her voice. Blistering cold water stung her upturned face.

All at once comprehension arrived, a flood in her mind, and with it came wonder. For all that, the taste was bitter. ‘The eye has opened,’ she said.

Syntara’s glare was almost accusing. ‘What eye? This is the Azathanai’s work! She assails Mother Dark’s domain. This is nothing but unveiled power, mocking the sanctity of the temple!’

‘The sanctity of the temple, Sister? Indeed, but not in mockery.’ She glanced back at the train of huddling, frightened priestesses. ‘The procession is at an end. Return to your cloisters. The High Priestesses must seek private audience with Mother Dark. Go!’

They flapped and fluttered away like panicked crows.

‘The procession was not for you to command,’ snapped Syntara.

‘Paint your lines in spit and fury, Sister, if that is as far as you can see. I am not—’

Heavy boots sounded from down the corridor and she turned to see Anomander approaching, behind him his two brothers. Frozen water droplets bounced from their armour like diamond beads.

‘Emral,’ said Anomander. ‘The Azathanai is now through the gate of the city. The river is in flood and water streams down the streets. I would have your thoughts on this.’

‘The Shake, Lord Anomander.’

A low curse came from Silchas Ruin. ‘They invite a war of faiths? Are they mad?’

Syntara was looking back and forth between Emral and the brothers, her expression confused.

Anomander glanced to the barred doors just beyond them, and then he shook his head. ‘That seems unlikely, High Priestess. Their cult looks inward. Not once have they revealed any ambition to reclaim the old temple.’

He well understood the matter, she saw. The quickness of his thinking surpassed even hers. ‘Perhaps you are right, Lord. Then, they must be as disconcerted as are we. Sufficient to consider them as potential allies?’

‘Not reliably, I should think,’ he replied. ‘The impasse is theirs – I imagine there is chaos in the monasteries. One thing the worship of a dead god assures, and that is unmitigated freedom for the priesthood.’

‘But now …’

He nodded. ‘Their plans are awry. They face challenge from a most unexpected quarter.’

‘If they are nimble of thought,’ Emral ventured, ‘they will see the potential strength here, bolstering whatever position they take in matters of the realm.’

‘Profane matters, yes.’ He hesitated, still ignoring Syntara, and then said, ‘I am informed that Mother Sheccanto lies gravely ill – in consequence, I should imagine. And that Skelenal hastens to her side. They are old but hardly foolish.’